


The Vacation

by titC



Series: The Voice [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Beach Vacation, F/M, Matt Murdock VS vacation, Matt Murdock in a boat, Matt Murdock in a plane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 22:13:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19238125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Mood swings, Claire said when she sat him down to give him his rest sentence.Mood swings, easily tired, emotional. Headaches, sleep and memory issues.Or: how Matt deals with a vacation prescribed for his own good.





	The Vacation

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel) for the beta!  
> Check end notes for possible triggers (spoilery)
> 
> For my [DaredevilBingo](http://daredevilbingo.dreamwidth.org/) prompt _Wild Card: going on vacation together_ and my [MattElektraBingo](https://mattelektrabingo.tumblr.com/) one _someone i really like listening to_.

Elektra is alive. She’s not a hallucination, she’s not dead, she’s – she’s back. She’s really here, she really came back. To him. Matt spends his nights with her, not doing much of anything apart from sleeping. Sleeping’s easy, now. He just needs a little contact with her, nothing much. Her soft hair, the crook of her neck, or the curve of her hip under his palm; they can all pull him under and keep him there, warm and slow.

He doesn't want to wake up, because waking up means leaving the city and he doesn't want to leave the city. He doesn’t need to, all right?

“Rise and shine, Matthew!”

Ugh. What he wants to do is stay under the covers with her, but she’s already sliding out of the bed. “Do we have to go?”

“Yes, we do. If we stay, you’re going to try and do everything you’re not supposed to.” The bed dips where she sits, and he curls a little around her. “You remember what the doctor said, don’t you?”

“No,” he answers.

She stiffens, he can feel it through the mattress. “Matthew.”

Oh, no. No, she’s not dragging him back to Claire’s clinic and the noisy death tube. He sighs. “No work, no strenuous exercise. But I can’t leave Foggy to deal with everything on his own!”

“Yes, you can. He said so, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but…”

“No buts.” Her fingers card through his hair, and it makes him even less disposed to get up. “I know what I’m asking you.” Her voice is low, and she’s not even teasing him. “You need a break, Matthew. Before you – you need a break.”

Before you snap. Before you have a breakdown you can’t come back from, before you go crazy. He’s grateful she doesn’t say it out loud. The _incident_ last week scared too many people and now they’re all insisting he stop being Matt Murdock, attorney at law, and Daredevil, Hell’s Kitchen vigilante, for a while. Claire, Danny, Foggy… they’re suddenly all okay with Elektra’s return. _No one else has a snowball’s chance in hell to get you out of New York_ , Foggy had said. Matt suspects they’ve all had a few talks, and of course there were threats involved. He’s not sure who used them the most. He doesn't really want to think about it.

He sighs. “What should I pack?”

“Nothing much. The weather should be nice, and it’s a private beach. You can walk around naked if you want; no one will see you.”

“You will.”

“Well yes, that’s the point. No one but me.”

Matt can hear the smile in her voice, and he lifts a hand to play with her hair. It’s really long now, and he can’t resist it. It’s always brushing against her clothes, her skin; it’s calling him. “Elektra.”

“Hm?”

“I’ve never been on a plane.”

“And?”

He doesn’t want to say it, so he doesn’t. “Will you be naked too?”

“Not on the plane.” She takes a fistful of his hair and he feels her breath on his face now. “Are you scared?”

“No.”

“Are you scared that you’re going to be scared?”

Yes. “No.”

“Good.” She moves away from the bed and he hears her poking at his coffee maker. He really has to get up.

 

Matt doesn't like admitting it, but money does have its perks. Elektra has worked some sort of magic so they can go through a quick, quiet boarding process; she also booked a private plane to fly them to the island. He suspects his first airport experience is miles above what most people go through, and he tries not to feel too guilty about it. He’s not used to such luxury, but Elektra is in her element.

He follows her voice around and doesn’t listen to what anyone else might say. He lets her guide him right to their seats, turns his face to her when she tells him to fasten his seatbelt, and is vaguely aware of other people talking to him, but he doesn’t care. He tunes everything else out. They’re going to be flying in a noisy tin can that only magic and faith can keep from crashing, and he doesn’t want to hear about safety protocols.

He’s still surprised by all the screeching and vibrating and by the roaring of the engines when it happens, and he’s grateful for Elektra’s hand around his.

The rest of the flight is just more vibrations, more rumbling, more beeps and words he doesn’t understand coming from the pilots’ cabin. Every heartbeat rings in his skull, loud and heavy. Matt wishes he’d taken his rosary with him to have something to do with his hands, but after a while Elektra pushes a glass against his fingers.

“Relax, Matthew.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“No, you’re not. Let’s hope this will help a little.”

Matt knocks it back. It’s the kind of expensive Scotch he’s only ever had around Elektra; he should take his time and savor it, but really all he can do now is hope for something to dull his senses and the headache that’s starting to make itself known. “Thanks,” he says.

“You’re not even tasting it,” she chides.

How can she stand it? She’s been flying around the globe for all her life, ever since Stick found her as a child. “Stick.”

“What about him?” Her voice has gone from mellow to chilling.

“How did he cope? In planes?” His senses were similar to Matt’s, and as one of the Chaste he must have spent a lot of time cooped up in those rattling machines, ears popping and everything just wrong wrong wrong.

“He drank, mostly.” Elektra takes the empty glass from his hand. “He never said much about it, but he hated it too. Once he spent the flight locked up in the loo, throwing up.”

“From flying or from drinking?”

“I don’t know, maybe both. Who cares? He’s dead now.”

“Yeah, you killed him.”

“I did. And good riddance.” He’s not sure he disagrees, but he thinks he probably should. Elektra takes the glass back from him and asks, “Why, do you miss him?”

He never finished training Matt, he never taught him all he promised he would. There was so much Matt had to learn on his own, about fighting or about managing his senses or about… about everything, really. Bust he’d also been such an asshole all those years ago. Does he miss Stick? “I don’t know. Do you?”

“No.” Her tone is final.

“He tried. Sometimes.”

“He tried wrong.” Elektra pours more Scotch, but this time it’s for her. “He’s in the past, and our immediate future is a much better topic. More relevant, too.”

The landing? He’s already dreading the landing. The pressure changes are bound to make his headache worse. “What’s in our immediate future?”

“A beach just for us, food, loungers, and plenty of sunlight. You’re too pale, Matthew. You spend too much time indoors.”

“I don’t, actually.”

“You do during the day. You only come out at night, like a… like a bat.”

He misses his city already, but he keeps the thought to himself. Elektra probably knows anyway. He closes his eyes and pretends to take a nap, and she pretends to buy it. Even when the landing makes him dig his nails in her arm because of all the shaking and squealing and groaning of the plane around them.

Getting out of the flying death trap is a relief, but it doesn’t last. Matt finds he can’t bring himself to let go of her arm, even after they get out of the car that was waiting near the plane. She doesn’t say anything and lets him have some time to get used to the way everything is different as they walk… somewhere. Elektra knows how his senses work, and she’s probably guessed that this place is as different from New York as he can (can’t, in fact) imagine. There are no buildings for sounds to reverberate against, there is no concrete, hardly any heartbeats. The smells are all wrong too: no people and no hole-in-the-wall food joints and no trash cans and no dogs and no cars and – he’s lost. All his landmarks are hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away; he has no reference points, he doesn’t recognize anything.

“Come on, Matthew, take off your shoes!”

Elektra’s arm jerks out of his grip and he teeters, almost loses his balance. He plants his cane in the sand and consciously slows his breathing down; he doesn’t panic.

“Matthew?”

She’s the only thing he knows here. Her heartbeat, her voice, the perfume she’s wearing today; they all anchor him. The rest of the world is just a mess of unreadable stimuli around him and he is adrift, or maybe he is the unmoving rock over which the ocean ebbs and flows, ebbs and flows, again and again and again. It will wear him off little by little, molecule by molecule, and there will be nothing left of him. There is a one-two thump, he thinks it’s her shoes hitting the sand. The sound is muffled. Sand absorbs the shock, perhaps.

He is blind. No, he _feels_ blind.

“Elektra?”

“I’m here,” she says, and she touches his wrist. “Let’s go to our cabin, all right?”

Matt follows her, and he keeps a tight hold on her hand until his soles hit wood and he knows they’ve reached a sort of porch.

Things are better once he’s inside. He does take off his shoes now; he wants to feel a regular, reassuring floor under his feet. There are walls around him that keep the alien world out, and the sound of the ocean reminds him a little of far-away traffic from the top of a building. Focusing on it helps dull the headache. He turns his head to the side a little, listens to Elektra moving around, opening cupboards, a fridge. A suitcase. He remembers they had bags, and that they didn’t carry them to the cabin. Someone else did. This is not normal, he thinks, but everything else is. For now. The buzzing of the fridge and the ticking of a water heater somewhere to the left and just how sound makes sense again. He’s all right. He’s all right.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, his bare feet on floorboards and his hands around his cane.

“We could have a nap,” Elektra says.

He’d like that. He is on edge, he is jittery and anxious and, yes, he is exhausted too. He feels like he’s gone through a shredder. When Claire told him he couldn't go on like he’d been, he didn’t want to believe her. He was fine, he was – but really he wasn’t, and he knows that if he does go on like he’s been he’s going to crash and burn. Miss a jump and fall to his death, botch up one of their clients’ defenses, _something_. Something unforgivable, because he hasn’t been taking proper care of his main tool: his body. He needs to do better, so he can be better. A better Matt Murdock, a better Daredevil.

He hates everything about it.

“A nap sounds good,” he answers. Even if it feels like a thing for toddlers, and he’s not one. “Maybe I’ll take a shower first.” The stale air of the plane, the salt in the air here, he hopes washing it all off of his skin will help.

“I’ll join you.” Her voice promises things that have been so far away from him for so long, he’s not comfortable with them anymore. He used to be, he remembers. But that was… before.

“I don’t think…”

“Just to shower, Matthew.”

“All right.” It’s not like he can say anything else.

 

The bed is huge and the sheets are silk, and their familiar touch is soothing. Elektra lies down by his side, and from the sharp dip near his shoulder he can tell she’s planted an elbow in the mattress and her head in her hand.

“What?” Matt says.

“I’m just looking at you.” Her free hand goes to rest on his stomach. It’s warm through the cotton of his shirt. “You’re too thin, Matthew.” It skims up his chest, his neck until she’s stroking his brow. “Too tired. You can’t be any good to anyone if you overextend yourself.”

“I know. I’m trying.”

“You’re trying too hard.” She stretches out on the bed, her breath soft and regular on his face. “Rest and relaxation mean just that. Not _trying_ , just… being.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t really understand what she means, but he wants her to believe he does.

She probably won’t, of course. She tugs on his shirt, slides her hand under it. He tenses, then tries to – hah – relax. She keeps quiet, strokes a little patch of skin just under his navel, then a finger dips under the waistband of his pants. He breathes as slowly as he can. “You’re wearing too much,” she says. “I shouldn’t have let you pack on your own.”

“Elektra…” But what can he say? She wants him. He knows she does; he can feel the heat of her skin and how she smells just a little different. Aroused. But he can’t. He’s not sure he wants to, anyway. After Midland Circle, most parts of him crawled back to life when he was at St Agnes. Most, but not all; his libido is still very dead. It hasn’t been a problem; he didn’t even _think_ about it until Elektra came back.

“Doesn’t it feel nice? When I touch you.”

“I just…”

“It’s all right. I know.”

He clings to her voice and the silk under his palms. What does she know? He listens. He breathes. “Yeah?” He whispers.

“Your friend Claire, she says she made you see a neurologist.” He swallows, and focuses on everything but her words – the vibrations of her vocal cords, the pitch of her voice and the air moving through her nose, her throat. Her mouth. “I went to see him, but he refused to tell me anything. Doctor-patient confidentiality, he said.” Matt hopes she didn’t hurt him. “I didn’t hurt him. He’s got your best interest at heart, I approve of that.”

“Oh.”

She pinches him. “Don’t look so surprised, Matthew. I had no reason to hurt him.”

“It’s never stopped you before.”

Her nails bite into his skin. He enjoys their sharpness. _Her_ sharpness. “Before, I was a weapon, and I killed who I was told to kill. Or whoever was a threat.”

“Not anymore,” he says. “I’m glad.” He really is. She was the soldier Matt himself never could be in Stick’s crusade, and she paid for it. Her hair falls on his face and he picks up a strand of it, twirls it around his fingers. Her lips brush his mouth, as soft and silky as the sheets.

She sighs. “There’s something you’re not telling me, Matthew.”

“Many things.” He smiles; he likes knowing she’s frustrated about his secrets. He likes that he _has_ secrets he keeps from her.

She huffs and retaliates by adding some teeth to her kiss. “I’ll make you tell me.”

He likes her light threats, he likes the contrast between her lips and her teeth, he feels liquid and mellow and then she cups his groin and he jumps off from the bed.

“…Matthew?” He’s rarely heard her sound so uncertain. He can’t really answer her yet; he’s still trying to catch his breath and stop his heart from trying to crawl out of his throat. “Matthew, what’s wrong? Talk to me.” She’s scared. “I thought… is it because of me?”

He shakes his head. “No,” he manages.

“You’re not just tired, are you?”

“I _am_ tired,” he says.

“Are you… hurt? Did I hurt you?”

He finally shakes himself and gets back on the bed. He’s sitting with his back to her; she’s right behind him but she’s careful not to touch. He wants her to touch him, just not like that. He leans back a little and she understands, scoots close enough that he can rest against her. “I’m fine,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong.”

“I’ve never known you to – you usually react to me.”

“Yeah.” He ought to tell her. But how? “After we got caught under that building,” he starts. She gently squeezes his hip, right where it twinges when he pushes himself too far. She knows. She’s noticed. “It took me a long time to wake up, then to… to get back to where I am.”

“You were in really bad shape.”

“I was.”

“You fought to get better.” He is stubborn, he always has been. She appreciates that, even if it also means they butt heads sometimes. “And you did.”

“I went back out in the mask as soon as I could.” Before he could, really, but he doesn't mention that. She probably suspects anyway. “And then there was so much to do.” Fisk and Pointdexter, Agent Nadeem’s testimony and Karen’s revelations, the firm to rebuild and friendships along with it. Going back to church and to God, being a lawyer again and navigating that thing, whatever it was, that was budding between Maggie and him.

“You’ve been busy.”

“Hm.”

“Too busy.” Her tone is sharp, but it’s not directed at him.

“I had to do it.”

“Maybe. But some of you is still buried under that building.” Her arm goes around his waist, and she’s careful not to go lower than that.

“I just didn’t think about it. It wasn’t relevant.”

“And before?” Elektra asks.

“Before?” He focuses on how her cheek brushes against his, how some of her hair catches in the beard he hasn’t shaved in several days. “Before, I was mourning you.”

“But I’m alive, now. I’m back, and I’m free. I can choose, and I choose you.” Her nose tickles his neck. “You’re alive, too. All of you.”

“Yeah.” She’s probably right, but it doesn’t quite feel like it. He doesn’t feel alive unless he’s doing what he does best, and he’s been told _not_ to do that, for now.

“Did you tell the doctor?”

“He, uh. He asked.”

“Did you answer him?” Matt nods. “Is there anything wrong?” He shakes his head. “Well then. You just need some time.” She sounds sure of it. He’s not, but there’s nothing he can do about that.

He turns his head so he can feel her lips against his temple. “So, uh. What about that nap?”

Matt feels her smile against his skin, and then it widens a little and she pulls him down to lie flat on the bed. “You sleep,” she says. “I’ll keep watch.”

He lets her slow and regular heartbeat lull him into sleep and, for the first time in so long he can’t remember when the last time was, he dreams about making love.

 

When he wakes up, the air is slightly cooler. He swipes an arm over the bed, but he already knows Elektra’s not here. He can hear her, though; she’s not far. The soft slap of her bare feet on floor tiles, the thump of a knife on a wooden cutting board.

“It’s evening,” he says.

“It’s still early.” She pads closer and sets a board on his lap as he sits up. “Eat up, Matthew. You need something that’s not either oatmeal or cheap beer.”

He can smell cheese and fruit on the board, and there are little sharp things to the side – he runs a finger on them. Tiny, pointy swords to stab the cubed cheese with. He finds crackers, too, the fancy kind Elektra likes. “Oatmeal’s perfectly healthy.”

“Oatmeal’s _boring_.” This time she sits on the bed and hands him a glass. Wine, expensive red wine – or so he assumes. Matt doesn’t know much about wine, but she chose it, after all. “I had the fridge and pantry stocked for our stay here. And there is no porridge at all.”

“Aw, but I like it.”

“Don’t pout, Matthew.” She takes a cocktail sword and spears some cheese with it before waving it in front of his face. “Open up.”

“I’m not a child.” He purses his lips.

The little sword drops back on the board and she lifts it away from him. “Oh, Matthew.” She straddles him, and her palms rests on his chest. “You were having a _wee nap_.”

He puts his hands on her hips, slides them down a little on her thighs. They’re hard as steel; she’s hovering just above him. He pushes down a little and she finally sits on his lap, careful and gentle. He doesn’t like that she’s so careful with him, but most of all he hates that she’s probably right to be. He feels fragile, not even ten days after what everyone takes care not to call a breakdown to his face and months of not enough sleep and… and the rest.

He knows she brought him here to make sure he wouldn’t be able to sneak out at night, to a place that was as far away from New York as possible without inflicting too many hours of flying on him. It’s not a prison, but he can’t escape an island anyway. It’s so unfamiliar that he’s not quite bored even if he’s not exactly comfortable, but if he were he’d already be doing everything he’s not supposed to.

She chose well. Matt wants to resent her a little, but he can’t.

She puts more pressure on his chest, and he breathes out. It feels nice, her palms digging into the muscle there and her weight anchoring him into the bed. She’s pushing him down and he lets her, ends up leaning back on his elbows. Her hair is framing his face, it’s fluttering with each of his inhales and exhales and it almost, but not quite, tickles.

“Elektra,” he whispers.

“I’m here.”

“But _why_ are you here?”

She sits back, and he misses her closeness. “Because I want to be. Why else?”

“I’m not – I’ve disappointed you a lot.”

“What do you mean?” She’s genuinely wondering, he can hear it in her voice.

“Sweeney,” he says. “Stick, and letting you die, and…”

“You never disappointed me, Matthew. Never.” She’s holding his head with both hands, and her face is close to his. “You always follow what you believe is right, and _that_ is why I fell in love with you. That is why I always come back to you. Do you understand? It’s that light in you, Matthew. That light you follow.”

She’s so earnest, so adamant he’s good, somehow. He can’t take it. “I don’t see it,” he quips.

“You don’t need to.” She finally moves away and sits next to him on the bed, and they share the food she’s prepared on the board. It wouldn’t do to let it go to waste, after all.

 

Matt doesn’t want to admit it out loud, but the nap and light meal did help. He’s not feeling as disoriented and lost as before, like a plant uprooted from its native soil. It’s certainly not home, but it’s not too bad. The smells are different, but they’re… nice. It’s pleasant not to smell dumpsters, food gone bad, or dog pee everywhere. He’s so used to it he doesn’t really notice them, but he notices their absence now.

“Come on, Matthew. Let’s go for a walk on the beach.” Elektra pulls him off the bed and hands him something. “Beach shorts,” she says. “Can’t have you wading into the ocean wearing _that_.”

He changes and follows her, leaving his cane and glasses in the cabin. He’s not going to need them; there’s no need for pretending he’s someone he’s not. He hesitates, but he finally steps out barefooted. She doesn’t say anything, but he knows she’s watching. Nothing much escapes her, even if she likes playing oblivious sometimes. She’s been trained that way, after all; and it’s not something one can really forget. As he knows very well himself.

“What are you wearing?” He asks. He knows she took off the dress she was wearing, and he can’t hear the swish of fabric.

“Nothing much.” She sprints away when he tried to touch her, laughing. “Come and feel for yourself!”

He smiles and goes after her, and in the chase he doesn’t think about how strange the sand is under his feet, between his toes. When he finally catches her waist, he finds her skin is just a bit warmer than the sand itself. She’s wearing a bikini, and he suddenly wishes he’d left his shirt at the cabin too.

She turns in his arms and walks backwards, leading him until the sand grows wet under his feet, compact and unfamiliar; it sticks to his skin and soon – this is it. He’s walking into the ocean. Elektra stops and lets him take a little time to process the sensation, the way the water goes up and down, the way his toes end up buried under soft, wet sand. It’s such a novel feeling; he forgets everything else. It tickles a little, and he finally kneels to thrust his hands in the water, dig into the sand, let it flow around his fingers; he’s amazed at how fast it can bury his hands, too. It’s nothing like having rocks or concrete fall on you; it’s more like a heavy winter duvet that he can imagine huddling under.

After a while, Matt stands up and walks in deeper. The water is soon up to his thighs and there are more things in the water now – some are slimy, some are floating and wrapping around his calves, some are living things darting around his legs. It’s all so new and strange, he forgets the waves are getting stronger the further in he goes and he’s suddenly swept off his feet and thrown into the sea. The salt water floods his nose and mouth and it stings, he’s choking, he’s flailing and splashing about until he finds what’s up and what’s down and he stands up again, laughing and coughing at the same time. His shirt is plastered to his skin, his hair is dripping all over his face, and there’s now sand _under_ his shorts; it’s both terrible and wonderful.

“You look happy,” Elektra says. She’s much closer than he thought she was and he touches her arm, slides his hand down to her hand.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, and that’s when she jumps him and they tumble down into the water again.

When they finally walk back to the cabin, they’ve got sand everywhere and he’s learned he hates walking on spongy, weird seaweed. He’s exhausted, but in a good way. They rinse off the sand and salt, and the water from the outside shower now feels… boring. Sanitized, lifeless, and lightly chlorinated. He realizes his mind is saying this in Elektra’s voice, and it makes him smile.

He’s out like a light as soon as he’s horizontal.

 

He can feel the sun on his face when he wakes up; he’s slept for longer than he has in… ages. Not staying out all night and not having to go to work in the morning helps. The bed is cold next to him, and he can’t hear Elektra anywhere in the cabin. He feels for his phone on the bedside table and it vibrates when he touches it; he’s got a message.

_Gone skinny-dipping. Coffee-maker ready to go, still no oatmeal._

He smiles at her words. It’s not her voice, of course; his phone just read it out loud in its made-up, not-quite-human fake one. But he’s used to it, and it doesn’t quite register. His memory can replace it with _hers_. She didn’t want to wake him so she sent him a text, and Matt thinks Foggy would never believe she could be thoughtful, sometimes. Take the time to type something out because it’s quieter even if she knows nothing is completely silent, to him. Or maybe Fogs would. He pushed Matt to go on a vacation with her, after all. He wouldn't have before, but either he thought Elektra had changed, or his opinion of her had changed. Or he believed Matt was in a bad enough way that what Fogs thought of her didn’t matter, as long as she could get the job done. The job of taking Matt out of New York and keeping him vaguely sane.

Matt sighs. He doesn’t want to start the day with these kinds of thoughts, but they keep intruding. How his… friends, his _friends_ , are trying to _manage_ him; how they all think he’s going crazy and how they don’t really approve of Elektra but between her and his state of mind she’s the lesser evil… how they’re probably right to be worried.

He stretches, then stretches some more when his lower back twinges. Mornings, he thinks. He wonders if Elektra’s body twinges sometimes, too. If she ages, if old wounds still hurt. He finds the button to start the coffee, munches on a banana as he listens to the machine’s splutters and hisses.

Has she planned something for today? He liked the sea, after all. He liked the waves and the sand, but he didn’t like the seaweed squishing under his feet or the fish racing around his ankles and tickling him. He’s hoping they’ll go again tonight. They could play-fight, he could touch her and hear her laughing and feel her skin against his, he could swipe her legs from under her and she could trip him and make him fall, but all without expectations. There is no one to really fight; he doesn’t have to save anyone from anything. He can have… fun.

Foggy would have a field day with that, but deep down he knows and Matt remembers. Back when they’d been students, back when they’d been interns, it had all been so much easier. Simpler. Foggy’s happy now, but maybe he misses it. Matt’s pretty sure he misses having a slightly naive (although that didn’t last long) blind roommate without enhanced senses, without violent tendencies, without the training and without the self-destructive tendencies that Real Matt has.

But he is who he is.

 

Elektra comes back when he’s about to take a sip from his second coffee, and he never gets that extra caffeine. Matt lets her steal it and follows her into the bedroom.

“I thought you’d still be asleep,” she says. “You looked like a baby.”

Matt scratches his beard and raises his eyebrows. “A _baby_.”

“A baby, Matthew.” She hums into the mug, it echoes a little. “You were always clean-shaven in college, and you almost never are these days. Why is that?”

He shrugs. “Time?”

“Try again.”

“Shaving, uh. Gives me a rash?”

“Nah. I’ve been in your bathroom, I know what products you use.”

“You snooped?”

“They’re right there on the counter.”

“I don’t see them there.” He gives her a little smirk, and evades the finger she’s aimed at his stomach.

“ _Matthew_ ,” she says. He grins. “You know what I think? I think you made a pact with Franklin, that one of you always has to have facial hair. His was particularly unfortunate back then.”

“Well, not everyone thought so.” Foggy had never been single for long when he didn’t want to be, after all.

“I’ve been given to understand he has other talents.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“It suits you better than it ever suited him.”

“Um,” Matt says. He never quite knows what to do with a compliment.

She tugs his head down so she can kiss him; she tastes like coffee ( _his_ coffee) and he can feel her smile against his own lips. “What about a boat trip?” He makes a questioning noise. “I rented a sailboat, to take us to a mangrove.”

“You can sail?”

“I _could_ , but I’d rather not. Maybe in the Mediterranean, if you’d like.”

He makes a face. The plane trip would be way too long; he’s never going there. “Should we pack lunch?”

“No need, it’s all been planned. Just bring your pretty self, and then you can lounge all day long under the canvas.”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“No,” she says, prim and cheeky.

“Aww.” He draws it out a little, adds a pout, and of course follows her. It’s not like _that_ was ever in doubt.

 

He’s wearing light linen pants and a long-sleeved tunic that she produced from somewhere. Matt’s never owned anything like that, but she said it was either that or he’d turn red all over. She slapped his ass when he smirked and told him that she refused to deal with him if all his skin peeled off and he whined about it. (He doesn’t _whine_.) So he caved, slipped the pants and tunic over his trunks, and now he’s enjoying the particular feel of linen against his skin. He’s pretty sure it’s organic linen, too; she’s pampering him.

He’s not complaining.

Soon enough they’re on the boat, and he can hear the wind in the sails. There’s a motor on it but she asks their pilot to try not to use it, and he’s grateful. The noise and smells of those diesel engines are horrible.

At first, it’s all rather pleasant; he lets a hand trail in the water for a while and absolutely doesn't get sleepy in the warm air. Elektra is probably right about the sun; he can feel its heat even through the canvas over their heads. She makes small talk with the sailor, and he doesn’t pay attention to their words. He only focuses on her voice, her intonation and how her vowels are so different from his, how her Ts come with an extra puff of air and how she drops her Rs at the end of words and – he just really likes listening to her.

The nausea drags him out of his comfortable doze. He groans and tries to swallow the bile down; saliva is pooling in his mouth and he should go bend over the boat’s side except the idea of moving makes him feel even worse.

“Don’t have no sea legs, eh?” The sailor says. He sounds old, so do his joints; but his heart beats strong. “S’alright, you get used to it.”

Matt doesn’t think he’ll get used to it; he thinks he’s going to die. After throwing up all he’s ever eaten since he was born, probably.

“I brought some pills,” Elektra says. “I thought this might happen.” She puts a cool glass in his hand and a pill in the other, and he forces it all down. It takes all his training to _keep_ it down, too; all the control he has. Elektra sits so he can pillow his head on her lap, and she keeps stroking his head and neck and shoulders and back until he stops feeling like his body wants to turn itself inside out. After a while he’s just vaguely unwell and the blood is still pounding in his skull but it’s manageable, like the lingering effects of a bad hit to the head.

“Poor lad, he’s got it bad,” the old sailor notes. _No shit_ , Matt thinks.

“Matthew has a very sensitive inner ear.”

That's one way of putting it, but she’s right. His sense of balance is all shot to hell, the constant moving and just knowing the ground, the _unmoving_ and _steady_ ground, is so far away… “Ugh.” He pushes his face into her stomach and breathes her in.

“We’re almost there, Matthew. You’ll know to take medication right before we sail back.”

“I can take another route,” the old man says. “It’s longer, but the sea will be calmer.”

“Please,” Matt groans, and he tries to be patient until they reach… someplace.

He feels a bit more settled when they can finally leave the boat, and he does have a good time after all – as long as he doesn’t think about the trip back. Elektra tells him he can’t climb trees and jump from one to the other because he’s supposed to take it easy, and of course he ignores her.

He takes the pants and tunic off and only remembers the scars on his body when the old sailor mutters something about them; but it doesn’t matter. Matt whoops as he launches himself from a branch into the water right where he can sense her, and she slaps the back of his head when he surfaces. He only laughs, and lets her drag him back to the sandy bank where their lunch is waiting in coolers.

They spend the day exploring: wading in streams and sitting on exposed roots to dry off and listening to all the strange sounds of the mangrove. Matt has no idea what those animals are like: feathery? Toothy? With or without legs? He tries to guess sizes from their noises, but it’s all conjecture.

Elektra takes him to another part of the island where very soft, very smooth pebbles have somehow accumulated, and he spends maybe an hour running his hands over them and comparing them and making piles. He sorts by shape and feel and the number of veins his fingers can find on them. Elektra says the veins are a different color too.

“This one,” he says as he holds it out to her. “It’s as soft as the skin on your stomach.”

“I’ve got scars on my stomach, Matthew.”

“So?”

He keeps the pebble. It fits all snug and perfect in his palm, and he thinks it could be a… a talisman, maybe. Something to hold onto when he needs it, something that would warm from his own body heat, too. He likes the idea.

“You’re going to be insufferable when you find shells.”

“Shells?”

“Tomorrow.”

“All right.”

He’s already looking forward to it.

They walk back to the boat hand in hand, and with the nausea pill the trip back isn’t so bad after all. It takes longer but it’s not as choppy, and the trade-off is absolutely worth it. Once she’s decided Matt isn’t going to be seasick again, Elektra produces a bottle of wine from a cooler. She’s brought real glasses too, not the crinkly plastic kind. They share the bottle over cheese, and even if the old man accepts one glass there was enough left that Matt is pretty tipsy when they reach their cabin.

He’s leaning into her and, she assures him the next morning, _giggling_ ; he somehow finds himself impersonating a starfish on the bed without any memory of the walk back from the jetty. He’s had what, two or three glasses of wine? And he didn’t do anything he’d qualify strenuous, either. And yet, he’s asleep in mere minutes; the ocean’s slow crawl up and down the beach nearby just like a lullaby to his ears.

 

“So it’s seashell day?” Matt asks over breakfast.

“It can be. And maybe some sunbathing, too; I could do some reading.”

“Book?”

He hears Elektra’s shrug, her hair moving on her shoulders. “Paperwork. I’m selling some of my assets, I don’t want to have to deal with everything myself and there aren’t enough people I can trust to manage this estate.”

“Doesn’t sound like stuff you’re supposed to do on vacation.”

“What are you supposed to do on vacation then? Since you’re so knowledgeable.”

He ignores her mocking tone. “I don’t know, but not paperwork.” He steals her coffee right before she picks it up. Serves her right for yesterday. “Don’t you have attorneys to deal with that?”

“Doesn’t hurt to see what they’re doing. Keeps them on their toes.” She pokes his forearm with her fork. “Anything else you’d like to do?”

“Uh.” Hard to say, it’s not like he has a lot of vacationing experience. He’s enjoying himself so far, but maybe… “Isn’t there a town somewhere?”

She laughs. “Matthew. Why am I not surprised? All right, we can go there. What for, anyway?”

“Well, guess I could find something to buy… get Foggy the ugliest tie we can find, maybe?”

“You’re on,” she says.

She’s always loved tormenting Foggy.

 

When they leave the cabin, she leads them to a road. It’s probably the road they took from the airport, but he was too unsettled by the flight and the strangeness of this place to be sure. There's a car waiting, and a chauffeur opens the door for them.

“How far is the town?”

“25 minutes away, sir.”

“Oh.”

“We’re starting with tacky souvenirs shops,” she says. “Then maybe some local crafts shops. Do you have any recommendations for a spot of lunch?”

“Of course, ma’am.” Elektra sighs at the address, but lets it go. The chauffeur might not get the best tip, though.

“How can you talk about lunch while we’ve just had breakfast?”

“Growing boy like you, you need to eat.”

“I’m eating more than usual and not, uh, exercising as much.”

“You’ve not been eating enough, and you’re too skinny. A week of proper eating and rest won’t kill you, Matthew.”

Matt doesn’t quite believe her, but he doesn’t want to argue either. She lowers a window so an ocean breeze can fill the car, and he breathes it in. It smells like life itself, he thinks. Sometimes too strong, but primal. A bit like New York, in a way. A bit like home.

He doesn’t find a very ugly tie or so Elektra says, but he does find tiny dinosaurs that she tells him are painted the gaudiest colors ever. Karen will get a book on unexplained disappearances, Claire a leather bracelet, and Maggie – he doesn’t know what to get her. Not yet. He’ll have to think about it.

Their lunch is mostly shellfish that he’s never tasted before, and he likes touching the hard shells and feeling the ridges and the shapes more than the taste. Elektra is sipping white wine, but he’s sticking to beer. Shitty beer, Stick would say, but it’s something he’s comfortable with and, yes, it’s cheap. He can’t even imagine how much money this little getaway costs, and it makes him a bit uneasy. He’s still the boxer’s kid deep down, still doing his homework on the kitchen table. Still eating a lot of potatoes and pasta at the end of the month on that same table.

“Matthew.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re thinking too much.” He hears her slide her card from her wallet and pay, and then they’re out of the restaurant. “Coffee?”

“Sure.” Matt wonders why they didn’t have it at the restaurant, but he soon gets it. She leads them to a quiet side street and he can hear people’s TVs and radios from the open widows, he can smell the fabric softener on drying clothes. They're in an area where the locals live, not on the more touristy part of the beachfront anymore.

Before they reach the coffee shop, though, Matt stops. He tilts his head to listen better and – yes. There it is. Soon he’s leaping on the hood of a car, then a balcony, then up on a roof; Elektra is right behind him. She trusts he’s heard something that warrants this, and he hopes he’s wrong. He hopes he’s heard wrong.

He hasn’t. There, under a bit of corrugated iron that provides some shelter from the sun, three teenagers are being threatened by two armed guys. Drug dealers demanding their money, from what he’s heard.

“Step away,” Matt says.

“Fuck off.” The man has a slight Minnesota accent.

“No can do.” He can hear Elektra shifting her stance behind him, her soles scraping slightly on the concrete roof. “How old are you, kids?”

“Uh. Fifteen?”

“Yeah, fifteen.” From the voices, Matt thinks they’re younger; but he doesn’t let on.

“Shut up!” Minnesota says. “And you, you fuck off. This is your last warning.”

Matt and Elektra don’t budge, and that’s when it starts. The two thugs try to shoot them but Matt kicks one gun away and breaks Minnesota’s wrist; then it’s a matter of a few seconds to make sure they’re not getting up anytime soon. Elektra’s not even breathing hard as she ties them up with their own belts while they’re unconscious.

“You alright?” Matt asks the kids.

“Sure.”

He should ask about their family, ask if they have a place to stay, if they need a doctor; but suddenly he’s drained. “Right. Good.”

“Are you alright, sir?”

“He’s fine,” Elektra says. Yes he is. Maybe a bit shaky now, but he’s _fine_. It’s just the adrenaline wearing off. He’s just out of shape. “Now scram. Shoo. Leave!”

Matt hears them run away and down rickety stairs, and he sits down on a ledge. “That was fun.”

“Not advisable while you’re on medical leave,” she says.

“I don’t need to be on medical leave.” He’s wheezing a little, but they’ve all been keeping him cooped up for almost two weeks now and he hasn’t done much more than walking and sleeping so of course he’s wheezing. He’s not like Luke or Jessica; he needs to train regularly. “I’m good.”

“Your friend Claire said you never let yourself recover and that you need to. This doesn’t quite fit the bill.”

“I spent weeks laid up in a bed at St Agnes.”

Elektra sits next to him. He can feel her body heat seeping through her clothes to reach the skin of his arm. “Don’t be difficult, Matthew.”

She waits patiently for him to catch his breath, to regulate his heartbeat.

“But those kids,” he finally said.

“Yes.” One of the thugs stirs, and Elektra stands up and kicks his head. He’s quiet again. “We should leave now. Get that coffee. I’m fancying some ice cream.”

They go back down to the street and Matt insists that they call the police to leave an anonymous tip, which makes Elektra sigh through her nose, but she doesn’t say anything. She knows him well.

Soon they’re settled on a patio outside, coffee and ice cream between them, and their legs are entangled under the table. It’s nice, cozy. The kind of thing normal people do on a normal vacation, people who are not them.

“The tide should be low right about now,” Elektra says around her spoon. She’s trying to annoy him right as her ankles tighten around his. “Perfect time to go hunting for shells and pebbles like you wanted. Maybe driftwood, too.” Her teeth click against the metal and he reaches out and takes the spoon away.

“Don’t do that.”

He imagines she’s smiling. “Do you want to try some ice cream before we go?”

“I’m good.” He tilts his head. The noises here, the people noises and the town noises – they’re just different enough from New York’s that he’s a bit unsettled, especially now that he’s tired. The smells, too. He’s finding it all too much, too close and not close enough to home. The ocean has its own regular rhythm, its sounds and smells too alien to give him that dissonant, not-quite-right feeling he’s getting now. The ocean is easier. “Let’s go,” he says.

 

The car ride is quick and smooth, and soon they’re walking down the beach. Elektra carries a woven basket that she picked up in the cabin, and he’s got a bag she thrust in his arms. Beach towels, probably. She did mention sunbathing. The baseball cap she’s made him wear is a bit too tight, but he’s enjoying being barefoot on the warm sand. It’s early still in the year, the temperatures are pleasant but not scorching and he’s appreciating that.

She stops somewhere for no particular reason he can discern, takes the bag from him and sets the towels on the sand. He readjusts his cap.

“Fancy a dip, Matthew?”

He does.

His light clothes are plastered to his skin when they get out of the water. He fights a little to take them off and he can hear Elektra snicker, but of course she doesn’t help him. She likes seeing him suffer too much. He throws his soaked shirt in her direction but it lands wetly on the sand. He missed.

“I must say, Matthew, your best look is naked.”

“I’m not naked yet.”

“Getting there.”

Well, he’s never been very good at resisting her, and so he chucks his drenched pants and she tackles him so they fall on the towels. “Better?” Matt asks.

“Much.” She lets him keep his swim trunks for now, but it’s not like he could take them off even if he wanted. She’s straddling his stomach and he can feel her reaching for something – oh. The click of the plastic lid and the smell are telling enough.

“Do you really have to?”

“Your Irish skin won’t like the sun, Matthew.”

“What about yours?”

“I got over death.” She’s teasing him, he can hear it in her voice, but he doesn’t like thinking of the months he believed her dead. “You, on the other hand, _barely_ survived a few blocks of concrete to the head.”

“Aw.” He doesn’t complain too much; she’s squeezing the tube over his skin and then spreading it over his chest. He could do it himself but it’s nice to let her do it, too. She takes her time, goes over his stomach, back up his sternum, then his arms.

She’s feeling him up, Matt realizes. She’s – yes, she’s breathing a little faster, and squirming just a little. She’s enjoying this, enjoying _him_. He doesn’t want to disappoint her but then again she… knows, right? She knows he can’t.

“Relax, Matthew.” Her hair is loose, brushing against his face. He wants to kiss her, but he doesn’t want to get her expectations up, either. “Turn around,” and she raises herself slightly above him, just enough he can turn to lie on his stomach. She sits back down on his hips and starts again with the sunscreen; her hands glide over his back and he thinks maybe he can see the appeal of massages, now. Maybe he could find some nice-smelling oil somewhere and warm it in his palms, then put them flat over her skin; he could do what she is doing right now, really. Finding tight knots in his back and hips and shoulders and pushing down until the pain turns into relief, until he remembers that it was pain he’s carried for so many months now he’d forgotten a time when it wasn’t there.

“Elektra,” he says, and she lets him move so he’s on his back again. “How do you know where…?”

“I see the way you move.” Her voice is low, just for him. “I talked to your friend Claire, to your mother. You never did proper rehab, after you… after I…” Her hands stop moving and he catches her wrist.

“It’s not your fault. They did something to you, but you were stronger than them.”

“You stayed because of me.”

“Because I wanted to.”

“You wanted to because of me.”

Matt doesn’t want to hear that tone in her voice, the fear and the anger at her past not-quite-self. She shouldn't feel that, ever. “Did Stick take better care of you, then?”

“He cared for his weapons.”

“You’ve always been more than that.” His fingers follow her arm to her shoulder, her neck; they slide in her hair and bring her lips down to his and to hell with expectations. They have all the time in the world, the sun and the sand are warm but not too hot, just like her. He could do this for hours, and she doesn’t seem to be in any hurry either, there on a secluded beach by the ocean.

He doesn’t know how long they simply kiss and enjoy each other’s touch, until her hips shift a little and it makes the fabric of his trunks brush against – _oh_. She hears his surprise, and he feels her smile when she kisses him lightly.

This hasn’t happened since Midland Circle. He feels… heavy, full; but there’s no sense of urgency. He’s just remembering what it feels like for now; he realizes he’d forgotten. How could he have forgotten? Elektra moves again, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth. She’s teasing him now, but he doesn’t care. He revels in the sensations, in feeling another part of himself come alive again; it’s just as exhilarating as the first time he walked without help back there under the church. It’s just like his hearing coming back fully, suddenly; it’s feeling whole again. It’s one more part of himself he snatched back from under the rubble, a part he’d almost forgotten existed.

Matt lays fully back on the beach towel and lets it all wash over him, the pressure in his groin and Elektra’s light, teasing movements and his fingers carding through her hair as they kiss, slowly. He thinks he could stay there forever, in this unhurried, in-between state where the only sounds that matter are Elektra’s heartbeat, the brush of their lips, the ocean’s slow crawl up the beach.

He’s surprised to find he doesn't miss the city sounds, right then. Or maybe he’s not surprised at all.

They stay on that towel for hours or maybe minutes, he doesn’t know; he pushes her down on the towel and learns that he quite enjoys feeling the sun on his back as he finds out that, after all, he still wants. He still feels desire. It’s still in him, filling but not overwhelming him – not yet, at least. It can wait. He likes rediscovering it, he likes how her smell changes, he likes how this is familiar, too. He thought he’d forgotten, he’d even doubted he’d ever felt it, but now he remembers. And most of all he remembers her, too. How it was, so many years ago. How it can still be.

But there’s no sense of urgency, and she doesn’t push him. He’s not sure he’s quite ready for more right now, this reawakening is still raw. _He_ is raw, and she knows it. He wonders how long it’s been for her, too; he doubts she had many lovers since she died that first time. He’d like to think she never had anyone else that mattered as much as they did to each other back in college but that’s probably pride, and pride has always been his biggest flaw. Too much pride, too much confidence… but he’s not feeling it right now, not about this.

They slow down, their skin still touching; Matt’s feeling drowsy and content.

“Don’t move,” she whispers, and then she slides out from under his arm and he hears her pad back to the cabin. He’s slowly falling asleep, and he hopes they’re far enough from the water the tide won’t reach them. He doesn’t want to move, just stay here and reacquaint himself with this new piece that’s just slotted back into place.

 

When he wakes up, Elektra is reading next to him. There’s a slight breeze that’s causing fabric to flap above them. A parasol, he realizes. “Hey,” he says. His voice is scratchy, and she puts a bottle of something cool in his hand. Lemon water, he finds out. “We didn’t go beach-combing, after all.”

“There’s still time.”

“Hmm.” He stretches and his back pops, then he rests the back of his hand against the bottle. There’s condensation on it, and the cold feels good against his knuckles. He enjoyed that fight earlier, but he’s annoyed that every little thing leaves him so exhausted. “I’m sleeping too much.”

“Maybe because you need it?”

“I didn’t sleep that much before you all decided I needed a break.”

“Don’t be so pissy, Matthew. You weren’t doing that well.”

He doesn't want to admit it. “I was fine.”

“Sure.” She slaps his forehead with rolled-up paper. “Hence you getting a brain scan, and its results scared the shit out of your nurse friend too.”

“I’ve been worse.”

“Oh yes. And I’ve been dead. Can’t recommend it.” She throws her reading to the side and sits up. “You wouldn’t have lasted much longer, at that rate. That is not acceptable.”

“I hate this,” and he also hates the whine in his voice. “I’m _useless_ like this. Earlier today – a couple kicks, and I need a break. What is wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” Elektra says. “Nothing is wrong with you.”

He crosses his arms over his head and tries not to feel like an idiot.

 _Mood swings_ , Claire said when she sat him down to give him his rest sentence. _Mood swings, easily tired, emotional. Headaches, sleep and memory issues._ Matt pointed out most of it was nothing new to him, and Claire sighed. _Because you didn’t give yourself time to recover,_ she said. _It’s catching up to you. You need to let it, or else you’ll never get past it. It’s not something you can out-stubborn._ He’s pretty sure she explained the same thing to everyone else, too.

He acknowledges Claire was right, and he hates it. He hates it so much.

The ocean is just lapping at their toes when they go back to the cabin.

 

Matt finds he can’t sleep that night.

After days where it seemed he couldn't last more than five hours without a nap, he’s now stuck there in bed with his brain in overdrive. Memories assault him; they jumble together in one big screaming mess. The night he met Claire, his dad’s cold body under his hands, the MRI’s thump thump thump, Foggy inviting him to spend Thanksgiving with his family, his eyes burning and burning, learning to read again with his fingers, hitting the heavy bag, Frank pushing him off the boat just before it exploded, Stick taking him out for an ice cream, the boozy smell of Jessica’s scarf, the first time he put on the mask – Matt wants to scream.

He can’t stop it, can’t stop the memories, and he leaves the bed before he wakes Elektra up.

Matt ends up walking back to the beach. He hopes the fresh air will stop the voices in his head.

_they all end up the same way, bloody and alone –_

_our son is too much like you, Jack –_

_I only ever needed my friend –_

_Matthew, please forgive us –_

_I needed a soldier, you wanted a father –_

_see you around, Red –_

_his dad was a boxer who got in way over his head and got himself killed –_

But he can’t make the voices go quiet and he starts running on the wet sand along the water; his breathing picks up and the voices pick up and his heart starts beating fast, faster, and then it’s trying to crawl out of his mouth and he has to stop, his hands on his knees. He’s panting, but he still can’t drown the voices; their clamor is so loud in his mind’s ear he can’t even think, he can’t even remember more than those snippets on repeat and the overwhelming feelings that went with them. He wants them off; he wants them out.

Claire never said anything about that. She never said he’d be going crazy again, but the voices are shredding his sanity into thin ribbons the wind scatters everywhere; he tries to grasp one but it slips from his fingers and he follows it, he follows until the water around his ankles shocks him into a stop. It’s cool, soothing; it goes gently up and down and it sings a regular song, almost a lullaby. Matt thinks the voices are listening. They’re still there but it’s like they know he can shut them up, now.

He wades in further into the ocean.

Soon, his sleep clothes are wet; he takes them off and throws them back behind him before going further in. It’s getting harder now; more depth means more buoyancy and stronger waves, but he pushes against it. The sound of the ocean is now covering the voices entirely, and he’s finally at peace. At last, he lets go and floats on the water, gently bobbing up and down all sense of direction gone. After a while, even the ocean goes quiet; it’s now so familiar and regular he can tune it out and then there’s nothing else. His heartbeat slows down and he’s surrounded by water, water everywhere; rocking him just right.

Just right.

 

There is a scream, pain; something like a vise on his arm dragging him out of his water cocoon. His lungs are burning, he’s coughing and he can’t breathe and he’s thrown on wet, packed sand like a sack of potatoes.

“Matthew, I swear if you’re pulling a Virginia Woolf on me I will go to hell and drag you out myself, don’t think I won’t.” A sharp pinch on his earlobe, then he’s turned on his side. “Breathe, Matthew, come on, breathe now!”

His entire body jerks and contracts and shudders and then he’s vomiting water on the sand and oh, yes, oxygen. He’d forgotten about that.

“What were you thinking?”

He spits on the ground and pushes himself up on his arms, or tries to. The sand is good enough to lie on, he decides. “Orchids,” Matt whispers. “You like orchids.”

“What?” Elektra’s voice is softer now, but also very wet. He manages to lift a hand to her face and finds a cheek.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is horribly raspy. “This is what living feels like.”

“No it’s not, this is what almost drowning feels like.”

“You’re angry,” and that makes him smile.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“Don’t make me fish you out of the ocean ever again, do you hear me?” Her forehead is as cool against his as her tears are warm on his face.

“Okay.”

They stay there for a while as he relearns how to breathe and her fingers dig into his biceps. She’s not letting him go, and he kind of likes that. It stirs things in him, and he’s finally ready to sit up and stand with her help.

“At least you’re naked,” Elektra says. “I get a nice view.”

They hold hands in silence right until they reach the cabin, and then he stops. “Elektra,” he starts. Then he doesn't quite know what to say. She waits until he finds the words. “I’m sorry.” He hadn’t been trying to die, but he realizes now how his brain is not working as it’s supposed to. Claire was right, and he should give it time. Give himself time.

“Feel better now?”

“Yeah.” He breathes in deeply. He really scared himself, this time. But that’s good, right? Acknowledging his limits. Being patient with himself. He’s going to have to work on that, but he can certainly out-stubborn his restlessness, use one flaw against the other. He turns to Elektra and twirls some of her still-damp hair around his fingers. He’s not sleepy, but he’ll sleep when he feels like it. It’s always dark for him, after all. “Yeah, I feel better. Alive.”

He feels very, very alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Matt still suffers from what happened at (well, under) Midland Circle; and some issues he's been ignoring are catching up.  
> But he's recovering, promise :-)


End file.
